P

HE touches of her hands are like the fall

Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall, The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp

Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown

The blighting frost has turned from green t crisp.

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,

The touches of her hands, and the delight-
The touches of her hands!

The touches of her hands are like the dew
That falls so softly down no one e'er knew
The touch thereof save to lovers like to one
Astray in ights where ranged Endymion.

Oh, rarely soft, the touches of her hands,
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;

Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs;
Or-in between the midnight and the dawn,
When long unrest and tears and fears are gone-
Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

T. CAMPBELL.

Our bugles sang truce,--for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground over-power'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn,-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my

wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart.

"Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and worn;"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;—
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THE MOTHER'S CHARGE.

"Behold, I commit my daughter unto thee of special trust,

Precious and lovely, I yield her to thee!
Take her, the gem of thy dwelling to be!
She who was ever my solace and pride
Glides from my bosom to cling to thy side.

Guard her with care, which must never decline;
Make her thy day-star--she long hath been mine;
Lonely henceforth is my desolate lot,

What is the casket, where the jewel is not?

Take her and pray that thine arm may be strong,
Safely to shield her from danger and wrong,
Be to her all that her heart hath portrayed,
Then o'er thy path there will gather no shade.

Now she doth love thee as one without spot-
Dreams of no sorrow to darken her lot—
Joyful, yet tearful, I yield her to thee;
Take her, the light of thy dwelling to be!

THE BRIGHT SIDE.

MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

There is many a rest on the road of life,
If we only would stop to take it;
And many a tone from the better land,
If the querulous heart would wake it.
To the sunny soul that is full of hope,
And whose beautiful trust never faileth,
The grass is
and the flowers are bright,
green,
Though the Wintry storm prevaileth.

Better to hope, though the clouds hang low,

And to keep the eyes still lifted;

For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through,
When the ominous clouds are rifted.

There was never a night without a day,
Nor an evening without a morning;
And the darkest hour, the proverb goes,
Is just before the dawning.

There is many a gem in the path of life,
Which we pass in our idle pleasure,
That is richer far than the jewelled crown,
Or the miser's hoarded treasure;
It may be the love of a little child,
Or a mother's prayer to heaven,
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks
For a cup of water given.

47

Better to weave in the web of life

A bright and golden filling,

And to do God's will with a ready heart,
And hands that are swift and willing,
Than to snap the delicate silver threads
Of our curious lives asunder,

And then blame heaven for the tangled ends,
And sit to grieve and wonder.